


Untempered Mercy

by devilinthedetails



Series: The Ties that Bind [11]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Duty, Forgiveness, Gen, Healing, Honor, Justice, Knight & Squire, Mercy - Freeform, References to Abuse, Stubborness, references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 06:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13208325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Imrah and Roald talk about healing.





	Untempered Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> This marks the end of my series about the early days of Roald’s time as Imrah’s squire. I hope that people enjoyed the journey as much as I did. I do have some ideas for more stories with Roald and Imrah that might be written at some point, but those, if they are completed, will be separate from this now completed arc.

Untempered Mercy

To give his squire time to collect himself, Imrah strolled through the mews, visiting his hunting hawks and falcons. As he stroked the black-speckled creamy white breast of his favorite peregrine falcon, he reflected that Roald truly had inherited his parents’ stubbornness. Clearly the boy hadn’t mastered the art of controlling it, and he sensed that the boy realized this, trying to suppress it rather than draw on it for strength. When he learned how to channel the power of his will properly, he would be a force to be reckoned with, but, for now, he was simply a squire in need of direction. Such guidance was Imrah’s duty to provide. 

Figuring that he had given Roald enough time to calm down, Imrah left the mews and climbed up the winding stairwell to the library, where he found Roald curled in a window-seat, reading in the stream of sunlight filtering through the glass. 

“Don’t bother getting up, squire.” Imrah held up a halting hand when Roald made to rise. 

As he slipped into the cushions beside his squire, Imrah found himself fixed with an apologetic blue gaze as Roald said softly, “I’m sorry for resisting your instruction, my lord. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn.” 

“It’s all forgiven, lad.” Imrah squeezed Roald’s shoulder and remembered his response when the king had warned him about the classic Conte stubbornness. “A stubborn squire keeps his knight master on his toes. As iron sharpens iron, so one strong man sharpens another.” 

“That sounds like something a Mithran priest would say, sir.” Roald’s lips twitched wryly. “Did you read it in a book?” 

Accustomed to how swiftly squires could shift from sorry to saucy, Imrah gestured at the tome in Roald’s hand. “Speaking of books, what are you reading, Roald?” 

“A book about treating battle injuries if no healer is present or the healer’s magic must be saved.” Roald lifted the spine so Imrah could see the title. “How to treat the wounded without magic seems important for any knight to know, my lord.” 

“Very true.” Imrah inclined his head in acknowledgement of his squire’s point. “What have you learned through your reading?” 

“If someone sustains a deep wound, and there is a fear of infection, the limb should be cut off and the stump cauterized to prevent infection from setting in.” Roald’s tone was hushed, and Imrah almost couldn’t hear him over the memory of screaming, maimed men he had seen in too many battles with the Immortals, pirates, Carthaki raiders, or the armies of Tusiane during the last war over the River Drell. “A person can live without a limb but it’s rare to survive an infection even with a healer.” 

“It’s a mercy,” Imrah agreed, knowing that the prayers and wails of the men—some no more than overgrown boys—that he had held in place while a sword descended on an arm or leg at risk of infection would haunt him forever. “It just doesn’t feel like it when you’re holding a man to the ground to have a limb chopped off or letting him cry into your shoulder afterward. That’s when you feel as broken as he is but you have to be strong for him.” 

“I hope I never have to find out if I could be that strong, sir.” Roald bit his lip. 

“Unlike me, you’ve the Gift, so you may never find yourself in a situation where you’re unable to heal a comrade-at-arms.” Imrah sighed. “I don’t doubt that you’re strong enough to face any difficulty, however. I believe unquestionably that you’d do what you must. Now, what else did you learn?” 

“If someone separates their shoulder, it can be pushed back into the socket.” Roald resumed his dutiful recitation. “No healer is necessary.” 

“I know that from painful experience. My knightmaster thrust my separated shoulder back into its socket once.” Imrah decided there was no need to mention that it had been his knightmaster who had separated his shoulder or that his knightmaster had capable of healing magic but preferred the more agonizing method of repairing Imrah’s shoulder. The pain, Imrah recalled as he resisted the temptation to rub the shoulder that had been separated so long ago, had been intended as a punishment as much as the beating had been. As Imrah’s shoulder had been shoved into his socket with a squelch Imrah could still hear, his knightmaster had growled that the pain should teach him a lesson. Pain, in his knightmaster’s view, had been the best teacher. 

“A battle injury, my lord?” Roald’s eyes were wide with a thousand questions Imrah didn’t want to answer. 

“No.” Imrah hoped that his clipped response would discourage further prodding, but his short reply only made Roald more persistent. 

“A training accident, sir?” Roald’s forehead furrowed. 

“No.” Imrah gave a terse head shake. Before he could offer a quelling statement about this being none of Roald’s concern, Roald came to the conclusion that none of Imrah’s other squires had ever reached. 

“He did it on purpose, didn’t he, my lord?” Roald frowned. 

Imrah hesitated. He had never admitted to any of his squires—not even his Irimor nephew—that he had been abused by his own knightmaster, but then none of his squires had asked directly or even seemed to suspect. At last, realizing that his pause was as much a reveal as any affirmation, he nodded. “Yes. I’d hidden his wine bottles when I thought he’d been drinking too much. I was fourteen and convinced I could get him to stop drinking if I could prevent him from finding the bottles. I didn’t consider that while he was mean when the drink was in him, his rage when he believed he needed the bottle and couldn’t find it was even more violent.” 

“He was a drunkard.” Roald’s eyes burned with a cold contempt. “He shouldn’t have beaten you for that, sir.” 

“No, he shouldn’t have.” Imrah cupped Roald’s chin between his palms. “A knightmaster should never beat his squire. Not for any reason.” 

“Do you hate him, my lord?” Roald’s clenched fists made it apparent that he hated the man who had hurt Imrah. That was the Conte passion on display again: unfailingly devoted to those close to them but adamantly vengeful against any enemy who dared to injure those they cared about. It was this icy fire Imrah sometimes believed had allowed them to rule a kingdom for centuries and forge a dynasty from the absolute assurance that loyalty would be generously rewarded and treachery utterly destroyed, but there was also a disconcerting aspect about it even if you were staunch supporter of the family. It was a magnetic attribute but also a repelling one, as intimidating as it was charming. 

“I don’t hate him.” Imrah hadn’t even been able to hate his knightmaster when he was being battered. All he had felt then was confusion. Confusion why someone he wanted to trust was hurting him. Confusion about what he could do to be a better squire and make the beatings stop because his knightmaster always said the thrashings were his fault. Confusion about why his knightmaster couldn’t be a better man, one who didn’t go into a fury when he had drunk too much or been denied the opportunity to do so. “He’s dead. His drinking put him in an early grave because his liver didn’t approve of the practice any more than I did. I don’t hate the dead. I let them rest in peace, lad.” 

“I’m glad he’s dead.” Roald’s spitefulness suggested that only one detail from Imrah’s statement had impressed itself upon him. “Did you piss on his grave, sir?” 

“Roald!” Imrah was appalled at the notion of committing grave desecration. 

“I apologize for my rough language.” Roald was undaunted. “I meant to ask if you relieved yourself on his grave, my lord.” 

“It’s not your language I objected to, squire.” Imrah pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s the sentiment. The dead should never be dishonored. We’re men, not Stormwings.” 

“If some people don’t act honorably in life, why should they be honored in death, sir?” Roald cocked his head. 

“We don’t honor the dead merely out of respect for them. We also do it our of respect for ourselves.” Imrah arched an eyebrow at his squire. “It’s a matter of courtesy to me. Remind me of how I define courtesy, Roald.” 

Roald was silent long enough for Imrah to wonder if he was being stubborn again. Then he said slowly, “Courtesy is about treating others as we would like to be treated, not necessarily as we are treated.” 

“Good lad.” Imrah patted Roald’s knee. “My knightmaster didn’t treat me how I would’ve liked, but that’s no excuse for me to treat him in a way I wouldn’t like to be treated just because he’s dead.” 

“He doesn’t deserve your courtesy, sir.” Roald was definitely being stubborn again. “Not in life or in death.” 

“Then don’t think of it as a courtesy.” Imrah tried another argument to change Roald’s perspective. “Think of it as a mercy.” 

“He doesn’t deserve mercy either, my lord.” Roald shook his head. 

“Nobody deserves mercy,” countered Imrah dryly. More seriously, he continued, “That’s why we call it mercy, not justice. Whenever you judge anyone, Roald, keep in mind that when we’re standing in the Black God’s court at the end of our days, most of us will be appealing for mercy, not justice. Justice is a virtue but untempered by mercy it can be a terrible thing.” 

Imrah wasn’t certain what response he had expected, but he was surprised at the one he got. Roald, who was often so undemonstrative, wrapped his arms tightly around Imrah. With his face against Imrah’s chest, it was hard to hear him as he said, “You’re a good man, my lord, and the best knightmaster. You just deserved a much better knightmaster than the one you had.”

“I did but that doesn’t matter any longer.” Hugging Roald, Imrah was amazed to discover that it didn’t. His knightmaster was truly buried and had no power over him. “What matters much more now is I have a squire who brings me joy.”


End file.
